Revelations
by SylverSpyder
Summary: Bobby says some stuff to his brothers while drunk out of his mind, dealing with Jack's death. We learn why Bobby loves hockey and gasoline. Lots of cussing. Come on, it's Four Brothers. My first foray into the fandom of the brothers.


**Revelations  
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**Don't own them. How disappointing. I don't own the rights to the four brothers, and thus, I don't profit from them.  
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**WARNING: Language. A lot of language.  
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**Also: I've had this file for a long time. Came up with the plot in the shower. Wasn't sure if I should put it up. If you don't like it, I'll delete it.  
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Two fistfights, one gallon of gasoline, three pissed off cops, and four rounds later and Bobby Mercer was still pissed. He had stopped bothering with the shot glass ten minutes ago, ignoring the disapproving glare on the bartender's face as he swigged steadily from the bottle, relishing the burn.

Every day. Every goddamn day it haunted him.

The motherfuckers that killed Jack- the fucking assholes- were dead. There was nothing for him to fight.

Four brothers.

It seemed their whole fucking lives they had been the four Mercer brothers. Fucking untouchable.

Three brothers.

Seconds, countless rounds, three brothers.

Bobby Mercer, the famed "Michigan Mauler" knocked back the last of the bottle without a wince.

Fuck it all.

The hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he growled a sharp reprimand at Angel's hard face.

"Christ, you dick," he lowered the handgun that had seemingly appeared out of thin air into Bobby's hand. "I could have shot you, you goddamn idiot."

Angel unapologetically pulled his brother off the bar stool, dragging the drunk Bobby Mercer to the car and depositing him roughly in the back seat where Jerry was waiting.

"Bobby," Angel said seriously. "This is an intervention."

Bobby snorted. "The fuck does that mean?"

Jerry rolled his eyes. "He probably saw it on tv somewhere. What he was trying to say was you need to stop this whole fucking deal. It's like you're on self-destruct. You were fine, or at least dealing with it, and now you're cracking up on us."

Bobby fell back against the seat, laughing without a clue of what the fuck was funny anymore.

"Do you know why I didn't have papers, Angel? Do you want to know why I'm not in prison?"

Bobby was still laughing. Jerry winced at the violent, mirthless noise.

"I've got no papers because I killed my fucking father when I was ten years old. Fucker came into my room with a goddamn chain, totally shit-faced, my mother's blood all over his hands, and I took my hockey stick, my brand new hockey stick, and smashed the bastard in the face with it. I felt his face crunch. I knew then and there that I fucking loved hockey." Bobby sighed. "I ain't got a record 'cause I don't got any fucking papers. Evelyn was smarter than she gets credit for. Ma got me all set up, file and everything, after she found me on the streets."

Bobby stared out of the window,wondering if there were stars somewhere beyond the smoggy glow of the city.

"I was her first family, and she was mine. She was the first real mother I'd ever had. My mom, my biological mom, she died the same night as my dad. He beat her to death. 'No mercy,' he'd say." Bobby's voice was quiet, emotionless. They could have been discussing the weather.

"She just let him do it. I could hear her scream, begging him to stop, but she never stood up, she never fought him. By the end, she offered me up to him, and he just laughed." Bobby laughed again, and his brothers barely resisted the urge to cover their ears. This wasn't their Bobby, the "Michigan Mauler," their brother.

His voice seemed distant.

"I burned the house down around them. Gasoline and my father's lighter. I didn't die. They thought I did, but I didn't. Can you imagine? Reading your own obituary?"

Jerry and Angel were silent, caught up int the horror of Bobby's unexpected revelations.

"I killed him." Bobby met their eyes suddenly for the first time. "The one that got away. There was another shooter that night. I didn't realize until later, looking at the police report. There was a gun that wasn't on the scene, a gun that wasn't ours. A gun that shot Jack."

The two other brothers froze, their every muscle rigid.

"I hunted him down and beat the asshole to death with my hockey stick."

The silence was palpable.

"And I fucking loved it," Bobby whispered. "The asshole killed our brother, so I tore him to pieces. I mauled him. I can feel his blood on my hands, and I feel just like my father. A drunk, a killer. No mercy."

Angel felt the need to interrupt. "But your mom did nothing wrong. The shooter killed Jack."

"Did nothing wrong, did nothing WRONG?" Bobby was seething. "She offered me up to the asshole, she let him come at me. She did nothing to stop it!"

Angel felt himself tense. "You weren't the only one who did something, Bobby. We've all seen hell. God, you know what happened to-" he hesitated, "Jack." His eyes flicked away from where Bobby's face was pressed up against the glass of the car's window. "And," his voice grew softer. "I remember the night I told you what happened to me. We're all fucked up. You ever wonder why you ain't the only one without papers? I was a fucking doorstep baby! And the doorstep I was left on wasn't even an orphanage or some shit like that. It was a fucking crack house!" And then, almost as an afterthought- "Jerry's Dad was a dick, too, left his one-night-stand stripper mother pregnant. We're all screwed."

Bobby sighed, his breath fogging up the glass. "When I spent that year in juvie after they found me living on the streets, I actually enjoyed it, you know? There was food, and beds, and I didn't have to worry about who I could trust- I didn't trust any of them. I fought for what I wanted and gave 'em hell. Foster care sucked though, I beat on 'em and they'd just beat me back, twice as hard. We've all seen the type."

His voice hitched, and for a moment, a pang of fear struck the other two Mercers- Bobby was crying? Then Bobby gagged, puking all over the car.

"Bobby!" Jerry groaned. "I have to drive the girls in the morning!"

Angel rolled his eyes and looked over at the now-passed-out Bobby.

"He isn't going to remember any of this in the morning, is he?"

Jerry shook his head solemnly, "Wish I could forget it." He paused. "Well at least we know where the hockey and gasoline obsessions come from."

Angel snorted.


End file.
